


It's Not Your Fault (Please Stop Your Crying Now)

by nothinginfinite



Category: Bandom, The Cab
Genre: Angst, Car Accidents, Fic Exchange, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-19
Updated: 2008-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinginfinite/pseuds/nothinginfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian was driving the night of the accident. What lesson does he learn? And how does it apply to his relationship with Marshall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Your Fault (Please Stop Your Crying Now)

**Author's Note:**

> **disclaimer:** If I was making money writing these stories, I wouldn't be in the debt that I am. This is in no way true or intended to hurt the aforementioned parties. Any similarities to actual events are purely coincidental. As always, please do not link this to anyone mentioned in this story or the people they know.

The heater is blowing hard on Ian, hot air that curls around him like a cocoon, wrapping him in a blanket of sleepy relaxation, loosening his limbs and eyelids. Stifling a yawn, Ian reaches over to turn the knob, kicking the air down a notch or two, humming along to some song on the radio, the green-blue numbers reflecting against his glasses. Singer snuffles in his sleep in the seat next to him, shifting slightly to get more comfortable before settling up against the door, pillow smushed between his face and the glass, no doubt leaving lines that he would bitch about later on. Ian changes lanes smoothly before glancing in the rear view mirror to check on the other guys, and startles slightly to see Marshall gazing sleepily back at him. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” Marshall yawns and stretches, shifting around Johnson to move closer to Ian, one hand coming up to rest lightly on Ian's shoulder. “You doing okay? Want me to drive for a bit?”

Marshall's touch sends a shock through Ian's body and he stifles a shiver, his eyes glancing quickly to catch Marshall's before shifting back to the road, pinky resting on the blinker, ready to change lanes again. Ian gives Marshall a smile, accompanied by a small shake of his head as he leans forward, glancing behind him to drift in and out of traffic. “Nah, I'm good. Go back to sleep, yea?” 

Marshall and Ian have been dancing around this... _thing_ for months now. Ian isn't sure just what to call it, since it was more than just sexual tension, but he doesn't want to call it a crush because that sounds so juvenile, even in his own head. They haven't discussed it aloud, the two of them, or even amongst themselves, confiding in one of their band mates (at least, Ian's pretty sure they haven't; he can't be too sure about what Marshall does when he's not looking), but he's seen the looks that Marshall gives him. And if the fierce “mess-with-him-and-you're-dead” glares the other guys shoot at him from time to time are of any indication, well. They have a _thing_ , discussed or not. 

Nodding blearily, giving Ian a sleepy smile, Marshall settles back against the armrest, curling around Johnson, making the most of the small bench the two of them were sharing. “G'night, Ian.” He yawns once more before turning over, face pressing against the back of the seat, settling in for another few hours of sleep. 

It was only a second; Ian smiles to himself, letting his gaze flicker one last time to the rear-view mirror, locking onto Marshall's sleeping form, but in that second, their world shifts as the van slides and Ian tears his eyes from Marshall to the road, terror and uncertainty guiding his actions as his hands grip the wheel, wrenching it to the right to correct their slide. An instant too late. Ian realizes his mistake and his eyes widen in horror as the van lurches precariously, seemingly caught in a moment and then time speeds up again, rolling the vehicle over itself, his band mates’ screams echoing in his ears. It's like a dream; everything happening around him, their belongings flying around as the van tumbles and slides to a stop. For a second, all is quiet and it takes a moment for anything to register in Ian's mind. 

_Marshall_.

Pained cries and groans reach Ian's ears and he twists, still seat-belted in his seat. He reachs for the buckle to release himself, fingers shaking so hard that it takes one, two, three times to get it undone. As soon as he is free, Ian was twisting himself around, extricating himself from the mess that was formerly the driver's seat, blinking against his blurring vision. He brings one hand up to brush against his eyes, surprised when his fingers come back blood-red. He squints, realizing that sometime during the roll, he'd lost his glasses, adding to his already blood-blurred vision. Maneuvering his way out of the twisted plastic and plexiglass in front of him, Ian blinks blearily into the backseat, trying to make out _something_ that would give him some idea of the state of the rest of his band. He can hear their voices, but the pained groans and muffled sobs didn't really alert him to individual members. 

“Marsh? Johnson? Cash?” Ian can hear the thinly veiled panic in his voice and he swallows thickly, trying to shove his fear down somewhere in the pit of his stomach, instead of lodging in a tight ball somewhere around his Adam’s apple. “Singer? You guys okay?”

“Ian...” Marshall's pained voice has Ian looking around frantically, trying to locate a Marshall-shaped blur, relief climbing high in his chest, almost choking him. He scrambles awkwardly from what was left of the front seat into the back, trying to avoid stepping on anyone, Marshall's hitching gasp letting him know that he's missed by a mile. 

“Shit. Marsh. I'm sorry. Fuck.” Without his glasses, Ian quickly realizes that he was going to be more of a hindrance than a help, since he couldn't readily distinguish between human and gear. “Fuck! I. Are you hurt?” _Stupid question, Crawford!_ Ian winces at the words that spilled from his lips automatically. 

“I'm...my mouth.” Ian squints at what he assumes is Marshall's face, noticing for the first time the red surrounding the general area of his mouth. 

“Okay. Just. Okay.” Ian's hands are shaking again as he looks around wildly for something, anything that will help Marshall but he can't make sense of top from bottom for anything. He flaps his hands a little in frustration, one hand moving up to tug at his hair, a small sound escaping his lips. “I can't. I can't help you, Marsh. I can't see for shit without my glasses.” 

Marshall makes a small noise that Ian can't really place, and he feels a warm hand wrap around his own, giving him a squeeze. _I should be the one comforting him,_ Ian thinks, distractedly. He can still hear the sounds of the traffic on the freeway and he can only hope they aren't in the middle of the road, another accident just waiting to happen. 

“Hey, is everyone alright in here?”

Ian has never been more relieved to hear the voice of a stranger in his entire life.

*****

After stitching up the small cut in his forehead, Ian has been sent back to the hotel they'd been set up in for the night.

_“There's no sense having you worry yourself into exhaustion. Go home and take a shower. The rest of the boys will be there shortly.”_

Ian snortes to himself; as if. Sighing, he pulls himself up off of the bed, moving over to the window. Gazing out at the city below, Ian feels his eyes burn and he closes them tightly. It isn't fair for him to break down, not now, not ever. It's his fault that they'd wrecked in the first place, that his band mates' lives have been endangered. He should have been paying better attention, black ice or not. He didn't get to feel sorry for himself. He'd almost killed his band. 

The sound of the door handle turning has him turning around in anticipation, and the feelings of relief from earlier return as Marshall shuffles slowly into the room, tensing slightly when a wrong move sends shocks of pain through his body. Ian is across the room in seconds, arms wrapping tightly around Marshall's frame, but loose enough to keep from causing any more damage. Marshall's arm returns the embrace as he sags against Ian, drained in every aspect from their ordeal. Ian shuffles them over to the nearest bed, settling down on it as he pulls back to take in Marshall's appearance. 

For the most part, Marshall is all in one piece, save for his busted lip, which had been stitched neatly together. It doesn't hide the dried blood or the swelling that came along with taking a TV to the face and Ian can't help but reach out and brush his fingers lightly over the protruding lip, Marshall's hiss of pain making him jerk his fingers back like he'd been burned. Guilty eyes lock with Marshall's pleadingly. 

“I'm so _sorry_ , Marsh.” Ian swallows and looks away, eyes following the path of a jet outside their window, fighting the pull to look at their reflections in the glass. “How bad are the other guys?” 

Marshall makes a noise of protest when Ian looks away before sighing. “Johnson probably got the worst since he was dragged and his whole left side is scraped up pretty bad. Singer's got a cut behind the knee and he'll be on crutches for a few days 'cause he twisted his ankle or something. Cash fucked up his knee pretty good, so he'll probably have long-term issues....” Marshall trails off, watching as Ian seemed to grow tenser with each passing word. He can see his friend's face in the glass and the look of sheer self-loathing on Ian's face breaks Marshall's heart. Frowning, Marshall gently cups Ian's face and turns it so that they are eye to eye, though Ian steadfastly refuses to look anywhere but at his hands, jaw set in a firm line. 

“Hey. C'mon, Ian. Look at me.” After a long moment he does and the anguish in his eyes tears at Marshall's heart. “You can't possibly blame yourself for this. It was an _accident_.” 

Ian shakes his head, feeling the stinging prick of tears behind his eyes, as he tries to push them back. He isn't completely successful and a tear manages to make its way down his face, cutting through the remnants of dirt. “You're wrong, Marshall. I should have. I could have prevented it. I wasn't paying attention. And then I over-corrected. It shouldn't have happened!” His voice rises slightly at the end of his spiel and Marshall winces, but responds in turn. 

“How could you have prevented it, Ian? It was _black. Ice_. Meaning, it can't be seen. You never could have known that it was there! Anyone would have screwed up the same way!” 

Ian stands and begins pacing, throwing his arms in the air. “I'm from _Washington_ , Marsh! If anyone should know how to drive in winter weather conditions, it's me. Me!” Ian points to himself, finger digging into his chest on the last word before his shoulders sag in defeat and he looks at Marshall, willing him to understand how he is feeling. There was no excuse for his reaction. His father had taken him out on abandoned roads and taught him how to drive in weather conditions such as the ones they'd experienced tonight. There was no reason he shouldn't have kept his head and focused, getting them out of the slide they'd been in. 

“It was my fault, Marsh. I was distracted and I could have cost you all your lives.” Ian's voice is quiet, his voice ragged from his rant moments before. He sags to the floor bonelessly, and when Marshall's arms wrap around him, he lets himself go willingly, finally giving in to the shock and worry that has been plaguing him all night. He buries his face in Marshall's neck, his arms finding their way around Marshall's thin frame, holding on for dear life. His tears fall freely, accompanied by dry, broken sobs that shake his whole frame. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry....”

*****

When Ian wakes, he realizes he's been tucked into one of the beds and judging by the warmth that is wrapped around him, accompanying the comforting weight on top of him, Marshall has tucked himself right in beside Ian. Ian doesn't remember falling asleep but the itchy tenderness of his eyes tells him that he'd probably drained himself into exhaustion by crying. He lets out a soft sigh, the rise and fall of his chest readjusting Marshall's arm that is thrown across it, earning him a snuffled sigh in return. Ian turns his head to gaze at his friend, taking in Marshall's soft features, even more relaxed and feminine when he is sleeping, even with the bruises. He reachs out to brush some hair off of the younger man's face, tensing when Marshall shifts in his sleep, settling in closer to Ian, his arm tightening protectively around him. Ian relaxes and drops his arm, a sigh of relief pushing out through his lips, only to have Marshall's eyes blink open blearily, a slow, sleepy grin spreading across his face.

“Hi.” 

“Hi.” Ian gives him a soft smile in return, feeling only slightly better since his sudden lack of control over his emotions the night before. He still feels guilty and figures he'll always blame himself, but there is less of the hurt squeezing around his heart, cutting off his air supply and making him feel like he is drowning and choking all at once. Ian turns on his side to face his friend, his gaze drifting over Marshall's features yet again. 

“You know what scared me the most?” His voice is soft, but he can still feel when Marshall tenses, a frown crossing his features as he gives a soft shake of his head, his arm tightening further around Ian's middle. “I thought I'd lost you.” 

Ian knows it is almost ridiculous to say aloud because they haven't discussed this; this is uncharted territory and one wrong move can prove to be disastrous. But if he's learned one lesson from this whole thing, it is that life is too short to keep on dancing around something you want. And Ian wants Marshall, plain and simple. 

Marshall blinks, his mouth forming a little 'o' of surprise. Ian reaches up and this time he does brush a lock of hair out of Marshall's eyes, running his thumb lightly along Marshall's defined cheekbone, gentle and intimate all in one movement. Searching Marshall's eyes with his own, Ian leans in and presses a kiss softly against Marshall's lips, cool from the air outside of the covers and just as soft as he's always pictured them to be. 

It takes him a second, but as soon as he realizes that Marshall isn't kissing back, frozen in shock by Ian's action, he pulls back, face flushing with embarrassment. Obviously, he's been reading the signs and darting looks all wrong. 

“Shit. I'm sorry, Marsh. I. I shouldn't have taken advantage of y-” Ian is cut off by Marshall's finger on his lips, effectively silencing him. He looks into his friend's eyes, his own wide and pleading. 

“Don't be sorry, Ian.” With a smile, Marshall leans in and closes the distance between them again, pressing his lips softly against Ian's, firm enough to reassure him but gentle enough not to take complete control of the kiss, giving Ian a chance to reciprocate. 

Relaxing into Marshall, Ian slides closer to the other boy, his arm wrapping around Marshall's thin waist, drawing him closer as the kiss deepens. His tongue darts out to lick at the seams of Marshall's lips and he is instantly reminded of Marshall's injuries when he hisses in pain. 

“Fuck. I'm sorry! I wasn't even thinking!” Ian pulls away to look at Marshall's lip to make sure that he hasn't re-opened the split but is stopped by Alex's hand on his arm. “Dude. I'm not made of china. Yea, it stung. But I'll live, okay?” He gives Ian a small smile and presses his lips back against Ian's own, though Ian is well aware of the caution that Marshall is taking to avoid further injury and pain. He isn't exactly pressing for hard and dirty himself, either.

After several minutes, they break apart, both panting slightly from lack of air. Biting his bottom lip, Ian can't suppress the grin that threatens to take over his face. It doesn't matter though; Ian is pretty sure his giddy grin is easily reflected on Marshall's face. He can't help himself and he leans in, pressing another quick kiss against his friend's (boyfriend's?) lips. 

“Shower?” At Marshall's nod, Ian rises and begins digging through his suitcase, pulling out the necessary toiletries and clean clothing. 

“Do you want me to join you?” Ian looks over his shoulder at Marshall, who is currently sitting up in the bed, covers around his waist, hair skewed in fifteen different directions. Ian doesn't think he's ever seen him look so sexy in his life. 

“Well. I think I'm going to need someone to wash my back and all my other hard-to-reach places.” Smirking, Ian moves into the bathroom, sending a wink over his shoulder. 

There is only a beat before Marshall is scrambling over the bed to get to the bathroom. Some things are just too good to pass up.

*****

When Marshall and Ian meet up with the guys later for breakfast, hands clasped loosely in between them, both looking relaxed and refreshed from their shower, no one says a word. In fact, Cash merely raises an eyebrow and remarks “Well, it's about damn time,” before returning to his pile of pancakes and syrup.

Ian looks at Marshall and grins, giving his hand a squeeze. He hasn't quite forgiven himself, not by a long shot. But with Marshall there to help him through it, well, he knows that there will be plenty of time for Marshall to convince him otherwise. 

But they are off to a good start. 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> slowing moving all my works from el jay to ao3. originally posted on justranda/nothinginfinite on livejournal.


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